


A Little Rain Must Fall

by rukafais



Series: A Little Rain [2]
Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Gen, Other, derailing kuja's plans for fun and profit, general banter, lots of snide remarks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with creating life that has the potential to become self-aware: once it does, there is no way of predicting where they might go, and what plans they will inadvertently mangle in the process of their own self-discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimers: basically none of this belongs to me, unless you count the expanded personalities of the Black Waltzes?? I guess?? but yes ff9 and all related characters belong to squeenix

_Wake up, Number One._

_It’s cold,_ they complain, silently; so much of them is numb. _I don’t want to get up._

 _I said_ wake up.

 _I don’t want to,_ Number One grumbles, reluctantly twitching anyway. They think they’re moving, perhaps, but there is an awful lot of snow on them. There must be; otherwise it wouldn’t be so dark. Or heavy. Or _cold._

_You will do so regardless._

_So demanding_ , Number One says sluggishly. _Who are you?_

_What are you made of? Once you know what the Mist is, you will know who I am!_

The sharp tones ring in their head and make them wince, but it wakes them up sufficiently.

_How rude._

There is no answer from the mysterious voice. Not the jesters’ voices - too proud, too serious, for that. Some sort of noble, maybe. They leave the answer for another time.

It would probably be easier if they could feel their arms, but they can’t seem to feel much of anything except their burning headache, and their chest. Their chest hurts, a lot, more than they thought possible.

“At least I know I’m still alive,” they murmur, coughing, snow sliding off them in piles as they wriggle, flapping crooked wings to beat the ice off them. How much snow can there be in the world? It seems like half of it has gotten onto them.

There is a surge of panic and pain that isn’t theirs, and they beat their wings faster, limbs suddenly burning with energy as they dig themselves out of their predicament. That has to be Two; they can feel the fizzing lightning that must be Three, waiting somewhere higher, itching to depart.

Their legs are still numb; they do their best to shake it off, half-crawling up the slope. They can still feel that terrible seeping dread, thumping at the back of their head, pain that belongs to someone else.

“I’m coming,” One mutters, voice hoarse, cursing the slipperiness of the snow as they pull themselves up and forward, towards light. The bell jingles in their hand, frozen to their palm; it will hurt when they peel it off, they’re sure. It burns even now, a cold kiss of metal. “Don’t die.”

\---------------

_Everything hurts._

He can’t breathe; something in him is cracked. It’s not ribs. He’s not sure if he _has_ ribs; he knows how humans work (he really does, he remembers blowing one apart when Zorn and Thorn had tested his powers; there had been a lot of screaming, and afterward he had knelt, some fascination worming itself into his mind at how delicate everything was, how well everything fitted together, like magic) and he knows for certain that he is not human.

He moves slightly and fresh pain bites into his side; he lets out a thin scream. He’s meant for _destruction_ , not flailing around helplessly on the ground like...like....

Like _something!_ The fish in the castle’s moat? That was it. That was better.

He doesn’t dare move, though he can still feel magic fizzing through him, looking for a way out.

 _All this magic and I cannot cure myself,_ he thinks, resigned. _What is the point of being a warrior if I cannot even heal if I am damaged?_

He knows, of course; they all know, even Three, who is the pride and joy of their creators, and is proud in turn. They are tools. All black mages are tools and toys, made for war, except, perhaps...

_He’d been surprised, to see a black mage - even a little one - with them; they’d treated him as their own, and he’d seen how they’d done it._

_It had made something hurt, and he didn’t know why._

_What had that boy’s name been? He’d taunted him, of course. But that hadn’t included his name._

_His name was..._

“Vivi,” he says, out loud, staring at the sky. “Your name was Vivi.”

He hisses as pain resurfaces, a throbbing ache, but somehow he feels better for it; he is alive, at least. That is something. He has never felt so _aware_ ; something has broken in him, but it’s for the better. He thinks so, anyway.

There are a lot of new thoughts to think. His head is crammed with them; there is so much new information to take in.

Numbness is welcoming, and easy to slip into. He does so, and barely notices when he’s lifted.

“It’s so _light._ ” There is a soft _kweh_ \- an animal he doesn’t recognise - and a voice that sounds quite young. Another flare of pain - he makes another feeble gesture, another weak sound - as he’s put onto the animal’s back, and everything goes black.

“That’s not an ‘it’, miss. Number Two is a he.” The mage deftly ties the ropes, tugging gently to make sure the other mage is secured in a sitting position before jingling their bell. The chocobo trots forward with a chirp.

“What kinda name is Number Two?”

“We are manufactured, as you no doubt know already-”

“Oh, so that’s his number?”

“Yes.”

The girl considers this for a moment, chewing her hair.

“So what’s yours?”

“One.”

“Does that mean you’re the best one?”

“No,” they reply, shaking their head. “Just the first. Shouldn’t you be getting back to town?”

“The adults don’t care,” the girl says, shrugging. “It’s more interesting out here.”

“I won’t be here for long.” They sling light saddlebags onto the chocobo - it fluffs momentarily at the unfamiliar weight, but soon settles - and move Two slightly to make way.

“Where’re you going?”

“Following the cargo ship.”

“’S a long way.”

“I know.” They flap their wings, experimentally, and hop up onto the chocobo, rubbing its neck to put it at ease. “Go back to town. And forget you’ve seen me, if possible.”

The girl grins. “Sure, Mister Number One. Good luck!” She runs back up the path.

“Strange child,” they mutter, clicking to their mount as they turn it, urging it into a gallop. If they’re correct, the ship should be turning at any minute, and Three will come into range soon enough. “She didn’t seem scared at all.”

\-----------

He wakes up, because now the pain in his rib area - if he even has ribs - is a little too pronounced to ignore, and because he is _moving._

“Wh-?” He gets as far as a syllable into his question before movement stops and some kind of vial is shoved into his hand.

“Drink up. We have work to do.”

He drinks and winces as the elixir works its way through his system. Does he feel better? _Absolutely!_ Does it feel like the aftershock of being hit by one of Three’s lightning blasts? _Also absolutely!_

“This- tastes _awful,_ ” he protests weakly, though he drinks it all anyway. He tingles with energy, though the taste sours his rejuvenated self a little.

“I don’t care,” One says mercilessly. “I had to drink one as well, after being buried under snow. Can you contact Three yet?”

“Uh. Um. Let me try.”

He feels for the mental bond they have and finds only the impression of static.

“No luck, sadly,” he says, after a moment. “Where is he?”

“Up in the air. We’ll need to fly - or teleport.”

“Or both,” he grumbles. “ _You_ take the supplies. I will have enough trouble concentrating as is. And _why_ have you tied me to this bird?”

“You were unconscious. Unless you wanted to be tied like a sack of potatoes...”

“Yes, I _understand._ ” He works at the knots, pulling them loose and gathering the ropes up. “You have made your point _succintly._ "

“What a nice vocabulary you’ve got.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I mean what I said, and no more. Are we going or are we not? Three is going to blast someone’s brains out on that cargo ship if we don’t move fast.”

“Very well.” He huffs, wrapping his arms around Number One, beating his wings and lifting his burdens. He has a distinct feeling that the supplies weigh more than the mage he’s carrying.

It doesn’t take long for both of them to find the cargo ship; the echoes of Three’s anger are incredibly obvious, even at such a distance.. All he has to do is follow it.

It helps that the ship can’t go very fast either, of course. Three’s connection blazes into life.

 _You’re about to do something you regret,_ One says dryly. _Aren’t you?_

 _I don’t regret anything!_ The snarling tone is almost absentminded; they are thoroughly preoccupied. _And--you’re supposed to be dead! Stop talking to me!_

_Don’t blow anyone’s head off until we get there._

_Shut up! Silence! I can’t think! My orders are--my orders--_

Vivi didn’t know what had happened; one minute the Black Waltz on deck had been just about to attack the assembled mages that were trying to protect him, and the next it was looking around wildly, gesturing at thin air with its staff.

Despite his better judgement (and Dagger trying to drag him away) he stands up and wanders forward, cautiously.

“U-um--”

“Shut up,” it snaps distractedly, sparking wildly, searching for something.

_I’ll drop you off?_

_Go ahead._

There’s a flash and a thud, scant inches away from where Vivi is standing. As soon as it clears, Zidane’s voice rises clear above any other noise.

“Vivi! Get away from him!”

“I didn’t mean _literally_ drop me-”

There’s a soft jingle, and the winged mage stands up, adjusting their hat. Vivi can’t help but note that it’s a familiar gesture; he does that all the time when he’s nervous, after all.

“U-um,” he begins, softly, and then more loudly. “Uh, could...you’re not going to try and kidnap Dagger, are you?”

“It would be a waste of time, seeing as the princess has powerful guardians,” they say softly, eyeing him. He feels strangely embarrassed.

There is a _smack_ sound from behind them. The other mage turns, apparently enjoying the dramatics, as Number Three is slapped across the face by Number Two. Vivi can only watch, wide-eyed.

“Woken up yet?”

“Y--Y-- _You dare_ \--”

Number Three bristles, feathers fluffing outward, crackling with lightning; Number Two seems entirely unfazed by this turn of events.

(“Hey, Rusty,” Zidane says, leaning on the wheel and gesturing at the fluffed up Black Waltz on deck. “He talks like you.”

_“You impertinent--”_

“See, there we go!”)

“Now, now. Calm down. You were the one who said we had our own minds, did you not?” He holds his palms up; his voice is soothing.

“...I _suppose_.” They settle somewhat, loosening their grip on their staff; their ruffled feathers settle. “Did you have to hit me?”

“Did it hurt?”

Number Three looks to the side, fidgeting a little. “...It was _embarrassing._ ”

The last word of the sentence is so quiet that he can barely hear it, but he giggles anyway. “Hee hee hee! Well, never mind. If you can complain about your stung pride, you are not hurt.”

He floats down (Vivi notices that Number Two doesn’t seem to have any feet) and stops in front of the regular black mages. Number Three is right behind him, leaning on their staff, casting glances back.

“Would you be so kind as to let us pass?”

Vivi blinks, looking at the mage again (who has since turned back to him.)

“Does...does he always talk like that?”

“He sounds like Lord Avon, doesn’t he? Yes, he does.”

Vivi laughs, despite himself, despite the situation. He’s relieved, somehow.

They’re just like him.

“I _heard_ that!”

Three cackles, smacking Two on the head with a wing and causing him to slide forward; they stalk past the mages, wings outstretched. “Don’t be offended, Number Two. It’s true.”

Zidane has the distinct impression that Two is making faces at Three despite the total lack of facial features and decides he likes him already.

“Now,” Number Three says, stalking over to the cabin. Zidane and Steiner instinctively position themselves to shield Dagger; the mage waves a dismissive hand. They still don’t relax. “My creators are not far from here, in a two-person flight craft. They will be expecting me to come back with the princess, or else come back damaged. Seeing as taking the princess is not an option-”

The mage jerks forward suddenly, gesturing with their staff; the thief and knight brandish their weapons. Number Three cackles again, stepping back and holding their hands out, before continuing their sentence like nothing had happened.

“-we will have to arrange something different. Do you have any ideas?”

“Aren’t you the one with all the superior talk?” Zidane asks, leaning on the wheel and squinting at the Waltz. “Why don’t you come up with a plan by yourself?”

“Shooting myself in the chest with lightning would be obviously self-inflicted.” The mage rolls their eyes, or at least seems to. “And you have the capability to think, unless I have _vastly_ underestimated your intelligence. Which could be a possibility.”

“Insulting people who are trying to help you is a _wonderful_ start, I am sure,” Number Two says snidely. Three rounds on him, suddenly crackling with lightning, wings outstretched.

“Need I remind you that _I’m_ going to be the one damaged here? I’m doing them a favour, you-!”

“Every minute we spend arguing is a minute wasted, and Zorn and Thorn are a little closer,” Number One interrupts. “If you can’t come up with a suitable plan, we’ll implement mine.”

“Which is?” Two crosses his arms.

“What else? Get this boy to do it.” They gesture at Vivi. He makes a choking sound that seems to worry the other mage.

“Oh. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“N-no, I--you _want_ me to hurt Number Three...? I thought you were friends...?”

“We are. We’ll be friends afterwards, too, but right now he needs to distract some people who will make all our lives very complicated if they catch us all up here, so-”

“Hey, Vivi.” A comforting hand lands on the little mage’s shoulder, and he looks up to see Zidane. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, alright? Just letting you know that.”

He glares at Number One, who seems faintly amused. “Don’t pressure him into things, okay? You should know better. He’s having enough trouble as it is today.”

“Ah, you’ve adopted him. I see.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“I mean exactly what I said, and no more-”

“U-um,” Vivi says nervously, interrupting them both. “I-I can do it. I just have to hit them once, don’t I...?”

Number One nods at him encouragingly. “Just aim and fire, that’s it.”

It takes a few moments; every fibre in his body doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to harm someone who is like him - both in body and mind now. But the magic flows, as it always does; it’s almost too easy.

He lets it go.

The magic hits its target, exploding in a rush of flame, and Number Three stumbles - and falls off the deck.

 


	2. Knowledge

Vivi squeaks in horror, gloved hands grasping at his hat as he pulls it down.

“I-I’m sorry! I, I didn’t--”

“They’re just being theatric,” Number One says, unconcerned. “Don’t worry. Look, there they go.”

Number Three is already flapping wildly in an exaggerated spiral, away from the ship, still burning. Vivi still thinks it looks _awful_ , but he keeps it to himself. These mages have already seen more of battle than he has.

The normal mages - the ones Three had called ‘mindless dolls’ - cluster around Vivi like a hen around a lost chick, peering at him worriedly. Zidane has to laugh at that.

“I guess they aren’t mindless after all, huh? Not if they have parental instinct.”

“You’ll have to forgive Three,” Number One says, gently pushing their way out of the throng. “They were the last grown - and the most powerful of us. They were always arrogant about it, unfortunately - it leads them to make... _unwise_ comments.”

“Grown?” Vivi makes his way out, staring at the bigger mage. “What do you mean? You’re not like the mages we saw in the fac--in Dali, right?”

“That is correct,” Number Two interjects, gliding over. There’s a glint in his eye that is more than a little alarming. “We were born, not manufactured - hence, the individualities. When we were still in the process of being tested, we remained in pods when we were not needed that fed and preserved us - such technology is not known of or commonplace as far as I can tell, though there might be the capability for it. Nevertheless-”

“Um,” Vivi says, looking slightly stunned as Number Two talks about things, presumably mechanical in nature, that go right over his head. By the look on Zidane, Dagger and Steiner’s faces (Steiner has since come over to eye Zidane suspiciously and protect the princess from his wiles, or something, since Dagger followed Zidane), they’re just as lost as the little mage is.

“I should have warned you,” Number One says, jabbing their companion in the stomach with a practiced motion that knocks the wind out of him. “Don’t get him started on machinery. He’ll never stop."

“It is _interesting_!” Number Two protests.

“Then talk about it to someone who finds it equally as interesting. It’s not me. Don’t try.”

“I am _misunderstood,_ ” he sniffs, gliding away. Dagger and Vivi stifle giggles; Zidane grins. Even Steiner has to smile.

“So, are you guys always like this? You didn’t act like it before,” the thief says, scratching the back of his head. “You were pretty focused on grabbing Dagger, or killing us.”

“We had orders,” Number One replies, shrugging. “We’re tools, just like the normal soldiers over there. We do what we’re told.” There’s an edge to their voice that suggests there’s something more than that simple explanation that keeps them in line; Zidane decides not to ask, at least for now.

“Number Three is returning,” Two calls out, from his position on the deck. “In a ship. I assume he succeeded in fooling them.”

The little aircraft zooms past, almost knocking his hat off (he scowls despite lacking a mouth and jams his hat back into position on his head, wings tensed with irritability.)

“You _assume_ correctly,” Number Three says smugly, as they circle back around. The fire that Vivi had caused is now out; there’s only scorch marks on their clothing to show that it had ever been there. “Straight ahead to Lindblum, isn’t it? You should have someone steering, I think."

Zidane swears colourfully and runs back to the wheel, followed by Steiner. Dagger stifles laughter and follows her bodyguards back into the cabin. The black mages, after staring at Vivi for a little longer, head down below to take up their stations again.

“Turn the ship around, you scoundrel! And how dare you use that kind of language around the princess!”

“Whatever, Rusty!”  
  
"I'd advise you to keep on course to Lindblum! They still think I'm chasing you!"

Three drops out of sight again after that piece of advice (which thoroughly silences Steiner's arguments for now), circling the larger cargo ship and throwing insults at Number Two, who responds in kind. Vivi watches, a strange hollowness growing in him; even these three have a place they belong to. He is not sure if he belongs at all; he has no idea what his purpose was, or what it is now.

It’s a dizzying, overwhelming feeling, like the swaying of the deck beneath his feet; he isn’t sure what to do with it, and now that everything is blurring he doesn’t dare take a step.

He shudders, and makes a startled, choked sound when he feels the brush of feathers behind him and hears a jingling noise; he stares up at Number One, who is still standing there, watching their companions. One wing is outstretched; he looks behind him to find that it is forming a kind of barrier, ready to catch him.

“Try not to fall off the ship,” they say, after a moment. “Your friends wouldn’t be pleased.”

“O-okay,” Vivi mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels sick; he just wants to lie down. This is too much information to take in all at once.

He sits, instead, sheltered by the wing of someone he wouldn’t have considered comforting in the least, considering what Zidane knew about them - but it was enough, for just now. He shares a bond with them that he doesn’t share with his other friends, as nice as they are.

(They pity him, really. For all his power, he is a child still, uncertain of his place in the world and what it wants from him. Uncertainty is a terrible thing.)

They feel a sudden tug on their outstretched wing and flap instinctively, startled out of their thoughts, and look over. Vivi stares back uncertainly; one gloved hand is grasping soft feathers.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, after a moment. “I didn’t--”

Number One laughs, a little, and waves their hand dismissively. “If you find my wings so fascinating, go ahead,” they instruct, amused despite their own surprise. “They’re not good for much in any case.”

“What do you mean?”

(They notice that Vivi’s stammer usually leaves when he’s asking questions. The boy is curious - a good and bad thing.)

“I can’t fly like those two rocketing around over there. These are good for slowing falls, but not much else. Short hops, maybe.”

“Oh.” The little mage handles the wing gently, pushing it back and forth with his fingers. “There’s a difference?”

“Of course there is. If Number Three lets me touch their wings without zapping me, I’ll show you. And if we can find some birds, even better.”

“Okay.” He nods, seemingly satisfied with that promise, though it makes sense that he would be. He is a child, after all.

He seems to withdraw, tugging his hat down on his head a little further; soon he is leaning back against Number One’s wing. He appears to be dozing.

He shouldn’t be so trusting, considering what he is, and considering what his kind is being made for - what they will be known for, once Alexandria makes its move. They’re not sure what to think about his nature, what they’ve seen of it so far, but they know it makes them hurt somewhere they weren’t aware existed.

There’s no name for that emotion yet. They’ll have to figure it out later. Traveling with _this_ merry band will no doubt produce explanations sooner than most.

“We’re almost there!” Zidane’s shout breaks the relative silence. “Look ahead!”

They look up; Lindblum is ahead, and bustling with activity. They’ve seen airships before, and know how to recognise them, but it’s still an awe-inspiring sight.

They nudge the smaller mage lightly and he startles, leaping up and looking around.

“Oh!” He runs to the bow, holding onto the railing tightly with one hand and clamping his hand around the brim of his hat with the other, to stop it being blown away by the wind. “Wow, it’s _huge!_ And there’s so many airships! I didn’t know so many existed!”

“All these ships are powered by Mist,” Number Two says, breaking away from insulting Number Three (still doing loops around the bulkier cargo ship and enjoying themselves immensely) to glide over and lean on the railing beside Vivi. “It makes travel much easier around this continent, so naturally everyone wants to use them. It makes all the towns and cities much more accessible - hence, there are a lot more than people would expect.”

“Wow, really? So everyone has airships now? Is that why there’s so many?”

“No. Lindblum is the main supplier and builder of aircraft. Without Lindblum’s engineering prowess, it is likely we would not have the ease of transport on the Mist continent that we enjoy right now - and even then there are places who, for reasons of their own, will not use airships. Burmecia is one such place.” He folds his hands on the railing, watching as the South Gate looms ever closer. “Alexandria and Lindblum are the main powers that employ constant use of machines like this, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh. Um...how come you know all this? If you were soldiers, you wouldn’t have needed to know, right?”

“We were educated as soon as we could absorb the information, so we wouldn’t be shocked by the outside world,” One interjects, ambling over. “We were intended to be standalone fighters, able to perform difficult tasks without having to rely on numbers to back us up, so we were taught in a different way.”

They nudge Number Two, more gently than before. “And you’ll talk the poor boy to death if nobody stops you, so let him admire the scenery in peace.”

“I like him talking, though,” Vivi pipes up. “I mean, he uses a lot of words, but it’s still nice to listen to!”

“Don’t encourage him. Wait until he complains at you, and we’ll see how sympathetic you are _then._ ”

“I’m going ahead,” Number Three shouts, interrupting them all as they speed past in a whirr of engines, shooting into the tunnel ahead of the transport ship. “We’re almost to South Gate!”

The looming shadow of the gate falls over the cargo ship’s deck, covering the ship completely as they pass through; Number One can’t help but feel that it’s somehow symbolic - transitioning into something new and unknown - and wonders when they started to think like that.

They look over at Number Two, who is staring ahead, rapt with attention.

“Remember to come back,” they say to him. “I don’t want to have to drag you.”

“I will,” he replies distractedly, waving a hand. “There is just...we have never _been_ anywhere by ourselves. You must understand--”

“Just because I caution you doesn’t mean I don’t understand. Just be careful, and be _aware_ \- what is it, boy?” Vivi is tugging their wing again, apparently having decided that’s a prime method of getting their attention. They have to admit that it _works._

“You’re the oldest, right?”

“I was made first, yes. Why do you ask?”

“You just sound that way!” They have the feeling he’s smiling; his eyes crinkle up a little. “I just wanted to know.” He turns and runs back to the cabin to talk with his friends before they can say anything else.

They stare after him for a moment, before shaking their head. That strange, affectionate feeling has come back again; they’re not sure what to make of it in the slightest.

“Strange child,” they mutter.

The sound of clanking and whirring fills the air as they pass through the gate and are directed into a dock; Number Three has already landed their ship, and is steadfastly ignoring all questions for the moment. The princess and her guardians are departing.

They sigh and twitch their wings in the equivalent of a shrug, not directed to anyone in particular, and join the party in descending the steps to the platform. Number Two falls in behind them. Number Three is walking beside the princess, tapping their staff on their shoulder, despite particularly wary looks from Steiner and Zidane; they seem to be taking the ‘keep the princess alive’ part of their order incredibly seriously.

“The crew are taking the ship back to Dali,” Two says quietly, leaning down. “They say they will attempt to keep in touch. They want to know how Vivi will be doing.”

“I’m sure that will be useful for later,” Number One muses thoughtfully, as they follow the princess. “We’ll have to wait and see.”


	3. Captains of Industry

They had been taught the basics of politics and business; they know enough to name the four major cities of the Mist Continent, their regents, and their main exports, their imports, population numbers...

It doesn’t mean that the joyful reunion between the princess and her uncle is any less boring, of course, but they keep themselves busy by reviewing what they know about Lindblum. They get as far as major imports to the city (ore, mostly, “to keep the engineers happy”) before someone thinks to mention them in conversation, and even then they answer on autopilot.

“My designation is Black Waltz No. 3. Created by Alexandria for-”

“That’s pretty lacking in personality. Usually they’re pretty angry. They must still be asleep.” The thief boy - they recognise his voice, how could they _not_ \- draws closer; they can hear his footsteps.

“If you touch me I will _take your arm off,_ ” they snap, eyes blazing into life as they spring up from their static position, claws outstretched. They are not a doll to be played with!

(They called the other black mages - they can’t think of them as lesser, now - dolls, on the ship. Why do they feel so strongly about the idea now? It’s nothing. It’s childish, and stupid -- it’s _nothing._ )

“There we go!” The boy’s grin is stupid and his _grating_ voice is smug and they feel like ripping his face off right then and there, but by some miracle they restrain themselves from charring him into nonexistence. The little mage is staring again, and they want to leave him a smoking burn mark on the floor, too. The itch to commit murder is incredibly strong.

And they are not at all sure, in a sudden stray thought that leaves them dizzy, that it really belongs to them. Their head is burning, suddenly; so is their chest. It _hurts_ , enough to alarm them.

“What do you _want_?” they growl, straightening up and grabbing their staff from the wall, twitching irritably to hide their disorientation. The room is still spinning; it’s an unnerving, sickening feeling. They’ve never felt so helpless, or so _ill._

Except once, of course; but relatively, that was a long time ago.

“Unless you want to stay here in the room, we’re leaving now,” the impudent little brat says, in a voice that they’re sure was louder before.

“Fine.” They stalk out, wings pressed tightly to their back, using the staff as an aid to keep themselves balanced for the moment.

They’re not entirely sure what happens next; they seem to be reliving a memory.

_Silence, then light; then the sound of laughter that hurts their ears._

_Everything is too cramped, and too stale; they press hands against the smooth surface holding them in, scrabbling for a purchase, scrabbling for a way out._

_It opens, before they can really do much; exposure to fresh air revitalises them, clears out their panic and replaces it with raw anger, striking out blindly._

_Their body is weak; they know that much. They have only been recently born. But the power coursing through their veins is enough, should be enough._

_They lurch forward; they sense metal on their right side, grabbing for it and finding something they can use to get up, to move forward._

_Lightning fizzes through their entire body; it itches, it burns. They need to get it out. They struggle forward (a tapping noise draws their attention for scant seconds before they look away), putting their entire weight on the object they’ve grabbed._

_It skids, with a grating noise; they fall, hitting the floor hard, wings beating feebly in an attempt to slow the descent._

_They hear voices--_

“They must have overexerted themselves again,” Number One says, arms crossed. “I can’t see any other reason why they would collapse.”

“If we leave them here, they should be fine, right?”

“Yes. A bed is enough for the moment.” They pause, eyeing Zidane curiously. “You seem very concerned about someone who would have tried their best to kill you.”

The thief shrugs. “There’s no point holding grudges. It’s not like you guys had a choice in the matter, anyway. That changes things.”

Number One raises unseen eyebrows, but says nothing. Zidane has to resist the urge to ask exactly what they meant by that; it seems a little too ridiculous when the person he’s talking to didn’t even speak.

He doesn’t get a chance to, anyway; the mage sweeps out of the room in short order, apparently satisfied with leaving Number Three by themselves. Zidane shakes his head and departs, too.

_You are not yet powerful enough._

_“I will be.”_

_They don’t say it out loud, but it is a promise, all the same._

_They were made to kill, after all._

_The memory wavers, and fades; they can hear singing, very faintly. The voice is familiar, and brings something else rising to the surface..._

_“This is the princess.” “The princess, this is.” A series of pictures so they can memorise her face, recordings of a voice so they can recall speech patterns and sound. “She must be brought back at once!” “At once, she must be!”_

_“Capture her and bring her back alive!” The two jesters speak in unison. Their chest burns, their head hurts; they remember that searing feeling._

_“Yes.” The words aren’t really theirs, but they’re bound to obey. They always have been._

_“Wait here, until the ship is in sight.” “Yes, wait until the ship is in sight. Then complete your mission!”_

_The pair of them leave; they are alone. There is only an itching emptiness in the back of their mind. They are so used to being in close contact with the others that it feels strange to not have anything there._

_(It isn’t loneliness, surely.)_

_They kneel, slowing their breathing, entering their rest state. They remember nothing more until they sense metal again-_

They open their eyes and find themselves in a bed. They’re used to waking up in a sitting position; lying down is a new and novel concept that is, while not completely alien to them, terribly confusing.

It takes them a good minute or so to figure out how bedsheets work, which someone had seen fit to cover them with. They get hopelessly tangled - more than once, which would be utterly humiliating if there was anyone to witness it - and have to actively resist the urge to just rip their way out like an animal.

They sit there for a minute, pondering the situation, and then carefully extricate themselves from the entire mess in short order. They feel accomplished for the first time in a while.

They can’t hear the singing any more, which is a shame. At least their head doesn’t hurt.

They rise, shaking off tiredness. Maybe a walk will clear their head a little, and stop them feeling so strange.

It’s better than staying here, anyway. They’ve never liked enclosed spaces. It reminds them too much of the pod they spent so much time in, and the dark rooms they were never allowed to leave.

The hallways are even worse; they are narrower, the walls scratch at their wings like irritations. An attendant helps them figure out the lift and directs them to a place where they can actually get some fresh air, higher in the castle. Presumably, he hadn’t wanted to inflict an irritated, sparking construct on the general populace of Lindblum.

They end up, finally, in a walled garden. There are stone stairs leading up to a nondescript gazebo of some description, little patches of artfully arranged greenery, even a fountain.

The view is impressive, the carvings and the garden are aesthetically pleasing and easy to look at, yes whatever. Mostly, they’re glad just to be outside.

They don’t quite register the singing at first, but when they do, it’s almost impossible to resist following it.

They start their ascension up the stairs, painstakingly slow. They don’t want to fall.

\--------------

For all Number One’s cautions, Two is always easy to find; he is exuberantly loud, he has an unmistakeably Alexandrian accent (Vivi can at least pick out the speech differences between Alexandrians and Treno townsfolk - nobles and commoners both - even with his small pool of life experience, but he’s not entirely sure what the difference between Lindblum and Alexandrian accents are) and he sticks out like a sore thumb, what with the hat and the horns and the wings and the floating.

Really, it was just a matter of keeping him in sight; he moves incredibly fast when he sees something of interest, and in the Industrial District that happens to be _everything_. He talks to workers and builders and engineers at high speed; all Vivi has to do to learn more than he ever wanted to know about engines and steam and mechanical devices is keep up and listen.

A lot of it goes right over his head, but what sticks is at least interesting. He’s pretty sure he can just ask Number Two about it later, because Number Two doesn’t seem to need to breathe in between sentences and would probably tell him everything he needs to know in five seconds flat.

“Ah - are you hungry?”

Vivi blinks and adjusts his hat in embarrassment; he’d actually dozed off a little on a bench while the taller mage had been talking to an engineer. It was such a nice day, and he’d been so tired from the trip...

“Um. A little?” He can’t remember the last time he ate, but he’s pretty sure it was a while ago.

“You should go get something to eat. You do not have to follow me around all day.” He laughs at Vivi’s dubious expression. “Number One worries about me, and about Number Three. I believe they think it is their job, being the first. They tend to exaggerate a little.”

Considering what behaviour Number Two had demonstrated so far, Vivi didn’t think that warning description was too far-fetched (and he felt weirdly responsible for him anyway) but what actually came out of his mouth was “Okay! I’ll be back soon!”

Lindblum is bustling with activity, especially at this time of day; it doesn’t take him long to find food stalls. The variety is incredible; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much in one place.

He buys a little bit of all of it, and ends up needing a basket to carry it all; he thinks Grandpa would have been pleased. He has to sit on a bench to go through his purchases.

There’s sandwiches (he’s never seen sandwiches this _big_ ; they’re chunky and stuffed with cheese and meat and pickles), a few little clay pots with no lids and spoons to go with them (whatever’s in them looks a lot like potatoes, but they smell a lot tastier than that); there’s a couple of pies, too, different kinds that all look delicious.

He takes a sandwich from the basket and starts to eat it, slowly, as he walks; there’s a lot of food in here, after all! He’d better share it with his friends, too.

He finds a cloth to cover the basket with, so he can keep it warm, and goes back to the Industrial District first, since he knows one person who’ll be there. Number Two gets one of the little clay pots and a spoon; Vivi gets a warm thank-you and a little education on what exactly is in the pot (it turns out to be potato, egg, onions and bacon, all baked together).

He spots Zidane walking out of a building, followed by a lady in red armour that he doesn’t know; he hurries up to both of them.

“Oh, hey, Vivi. What’s up?”

“Um, I bought some food--” He can sense that the tall lady is looking at him, and he flounders a little. He still remembers the children in Dali, and those adults who put him in a box. “U-uh, would you like some? Um, both of you, I mean!”

“Aw, you didn’t have to buy lunch, but it’d be mean to say no.” He takes the cloth off the basket and whistles. “You’ve got good taste for someone who hasn’t been here before, though. Freya, do you want a pie?”

“I’ll take one, since it’s honestly come by and not stolen, _Zidane._ ” The lady - Freya, apparently - smiles at the little mage, after nudging the thief in the ribs, and takes a pie from the basket. “Thank you, Vivi.”

He adjusts his hat in embarrassment and almost drops his basket in the process; that’s enough to make him grab the basket, mumble a quick apology and run off.

“He’s very polite,” Freya says, watching him go. “You could learn a few things from him.”

“Geez,” Zidane says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m learning already, trust me!”

Vivi wanders a little more and finds Steiner looking at the airships; he offers the knight something from the basket. Steiner absentmindedly picks up a pie before he realises who’s giving him food.

“Oh- thank you very much, Master Vivi! You’re very considerate. You know, the princess isn’t allowed to leave the castle...” He looks mildly troubled, though it soon passes. The princess has to be kept safe, after all! She can’t just go around, wandering everywhere. “If you could give her some food from...’down here’, I think she’d like it.”

“Down here...?”

“Er, Lindblum. Commoner’s food, you know.”

“Oh, okay!” Vivi is happy to comply with the request, though he’s a little confused as to why Steiner refers to this kind of food as ‘commoner’s food’. It seems good enough for a noble to him.

By the time he gets back to the castle, he’s finished his sandwich and given another of the little pots to Number One, who takes it with surprise and gratitude.

“You’re an odd child,” they say, thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’ll be fine after all.”

Vivi adds that to the pile of thoughts muddling at the back of his head. He tries not to think about the implications of that sentence too much, and goes to find Dagger.

\----------------

“Princess.”

The word rattles in their mouth. The sound grates.

She stops singing (she had stopped singing the moment they had said her title) and turns. She barely flinches at the sight of them; they are impressed, despite themselves.

The silence stretches out. It’s the princess who speaks first.

“May I ask you a question?” Each word is shaped, elocution perfect. Lessons have taught her well.

They have no such training. They rasp out a chuckle; their voice is scratchy and dark. “Ask away, _princess._ You outrank me, after all.”

She looks them in the eye. “Can you lie to me?”

A huff. “I have no reason to. I wouldn’t.”

“Then answer. Did my mother send you?”

That startles a laugh out of them, raucuous and mocking. The call of a crow, not a canary. The princess grimaces, but holds her ground.

“Yes, she did,” they say, after a moment. “I was ordered by her two pet jesters to bring you back alive. For what purpose, I don’t know.”

Her face is drawn, and pale. The news seems to be a great blow to her; she seems stricken by it. They turn away.

“I’ll speak to you later,” she says, voice wavering.

“As you wish, princess. I will be here, in the fresh air.” They walk briskly down the steps, passing the small mage, on his way up with a basket.

“Oh! Um--”

“What.” They stop, but they don’t turn.

“Do you want something? Uh, to eat. I mean. Here!” A mostly-empty basket is thrust within their line of sight. They stare at it like they don’t know what it is, then look over at the other mage.

“Is there a motive for this?”

“I bought a lot of food, so I decided to share it...?” He seems uncertain.

“Hmmph.” They snatch a sandwich out of the basket before continuing on their way down. If the child expects thanks, he doesn’t know them very well.

Vivi adjusts his hat nervously, a little shaken from the encounter (Number Three was scary, after all) and then trudges onto the gazebo. “U-um, Dagger...?”

She turns from watching the scenic view. She looks a little pale, but she smiles anyway. “Oh, hello, Vivi!” She kneels down to speak to him properly, and he can see that she seems a little..off. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, um...Mister Steiner asked me to bring you some food.” He gestures to the basket with his free hand. “Since you’re not allowed to go out of the castle.”

“He would,” Dagger says, smiling sadly. “Thank you, Vivi. I really appreciate you bringing it all the way up here.” She takes the one remaining food item - a little clay pot and spoon, still warm - and sets it on a nearby bench, before hugging him gently. “Please say thank you to Steiner for me.”

He doesn’t dare ask why she seems so sad, and just nods. “I will! I’ll tell him. See you later, Dagger.” He sets off down the stairs at a brisk pace and practically scurries past Number Three, gazing out at the Mist below.

He decides to go back to Lindblum proper, to explore the city some more. He hasn’t quite looked at everything yet.

On the way down, he passes Zidane, who is looking for Dagger; he helpfully informs his friend that she’s up in the walled gardens, and you need the lift to get up there.

“Thanks, Vivi,” he says, grinning. “You’re a real help!”

He goes on his way, feeling much better.

\-----------

“The Festival of the Hunt? And you signed the boy up for it? That seems like a terrible idea.”

“’The boy’ has a name, y’know! Geez. And yeah, I did sign Vivi up for it. I think he’d be good at it.”

“Huh? What did you sign me up for, Zidane?” Vivi pushes the floppy brim of his hat out of the way of his eyes as he stumbles into the room.

“I’ll let you explain this one,” Number One sighs, stepping back and toying idly with their bell. Freya just raises her eyebrows at the thief; she doesn’t need to say anything to communicate her disapproval.

“The Festival of the Hunt is where you hunt monsters for points,” Zidane explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you get to choose a prize if you win.”

“A prize? Like what?”

“Anything! Like, uh...” He flounders for a moment, and then inspiration strikes. “Like a date with the princess!”

“What?” Steiner bristles. Number Three is standing impassively in the background; Dagger just looks unimpressed.

“That’ll be my prize,” Zidane says cheekily, grinning. “With something like that on the line, I’ll be sure to win!”

“Um...” Vivi scratches his head for a moment, and thinks. “The prize can be anything, so...can I have a card if I win?”

“Of course,” the official says. Vivi jumps; he hadn’t noticed her standing in the corner of the room. “There we go,” she says politely, scratching down the little mage’s prize on her record book. “Is everyone ready to participate?”

\---------

“I take it you didn’t win,” Number One says, looking at Zidane’s current, much-battered state; Freya is more or less right behind him, equally tattered. Both of them look like they’ve been dragged through the streets.

“We ran into Za...Zag..”

“Zaghnol,” Freya says, finally interrupting. “One of those specially-bred monsters for the hunt. We managed, but it was more of a draw than a win.”

“So, who did win?”

Vivi rushes into the throne room, still disheveled and clutching his staff, trailing feathers behind him; he trips.

“Actually, according to the points,” the official says mildly, “I believe this boy here won.” She indicates the little mage, still face-down on the floor.

“Well _done_ , Master Vivi!” Steiner sweeps the mage up in a boisterous hug as soon as he gets up again (there’s a muffled yelp of surprise from him); Dagger laughs.

“And here’s your card,” the official says, after the knight has finished squeezing Vivi half to death; she holds out a Tetra Master card. He blinks, still dazed, before he gently plucks it out of her hand.

“Thank you,” he says politely, adjusting his hat again.

There’s a moment of silence, before someone else, badly wounded, stumbles into the throne room. He looks like Freya - they are the same species, at least - with a few stark differences; the most obvious difference is the brutal injuries to his eyes.

“Lord Cid,” he gasps, trembling. “Burmecia--is under attack by Alexandrian forces. We humbly request assistance--”

“Slow down,” Freya says, kneeling to support him. “You need healing.”

He shakes his head, though he clutches onto her shoulder with a trembling hand. “Lady Freya,” he whispers. “There is no time--we could not withstand the attack. They have-- magical soldiers, the likes of which we’ve...we’ve never seen before....”

He shivers. “Please,” he says, faintly, letting go of Freya’s shoulder; he leaves cooling stains on her armour, the colour of rust. “You must help us.”

He slumps over, still kneeling; the dragon knight presses fingers to his neck and holds up a hand to check his wrist, before shaking her head.

“He’s gone,” she says, grimly. “He must have used the last of his strength getting here.” She gets to her feet, armour clanking. “I must go.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Zidane says, crossing his arms. “If those soldiers are what I think they’re gonna be, then you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

“I’m coming too,” Vivi adds, waving his staff. “Maybe I can talk to them!”

“You’ll need-” Dagger begins, before Zidane turns to her; she sees the answer written on his face.

“I don’t think it’d be a good idea, Dagger,” he says. “Remember, your mother’s still looking for you, and if you get caught...”

“I still want to help!”

“Princess, I know how you feel,” Cid says, hopping from the throne to stand in front of her. “But he’s right. You should stay here, where you’re safe.”

She knows they’re right, in a way; but she didn’t come out here to be _safe._ She doesn’t say anything, though; she just crosses her arms and steps back.

“Number Two will go with you,” One says idly; the exuberant mage waves, as if anyone could forget him after spending five minutes in his company. “He’s the best at varied battle magic, and he should prove useful.”

“What do you mean by _should?!”_

“Need I remind you about-”

“That was _once!_ "

“Once is too much."

“Hrrmph!” Number Two crosses his arms and floats over to Zidane. “Nevertheless! They are right. I will offer my services and go with you as an extra mage.”

“I guess,” the thief says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t just wander off, though.”

“I do not need babysitting,” the tall mage says grumpily. “I am perfectly able to take care of myself, and to safeguard you-”

“Well, that all seems settled!” Cid interrupts, silencing all chatter. “Now, before you go, you’ll need some food, won’t you? I’ll ask the kitchen staff to prepare it - it shouldn’t take long."

Dagger slips away while everyone is talking; Number Three is already gone, but she knows where they’ll be.

_“We’ll talk later,”_ she had said. Well, now she knew if they would do what she asked of them, so it was time for another talk.

The Black Waltz is standing where she was singing earlier; they’re not hard to spot. They seem to be enjoying the wind.

She takes a deep breath, ignoring the clamoring voices within her, fighting to be heard, telling her _this is a bad idea._

“Will...will you accept orders from me?”

“You can’t command me,” they say softly, turning on their heel to face her. Their eyes are red, glowing slits; terribly intelligent. “You do not have the knowledge to make the orders _stick_. But you may request something of me, princess.”

She breathes in, and stares at them once more.

“I need you to...take me back to Alexandria.”

“You _jest._ ” They sound like Number Two for a moment; they are thoroughly caught off-guard by the request. “The canary wishes to go back to the cage? Didn’t you leave of your own accord in the first place?”

“I am not joking. I...I must speak with my mother. To find out the truth, of why she’s...ordering these attacks. Will you take me?”

“I--” They stare at her, searching her face for some kind of hesitance. They find none; just a stubborn determination. “You’re serious.”

“I am. _Will_ you?”

They sigh, wings twitching, fingers tapping on their staff; it takes a moment before they give their answer.

“Yes, Princess. I will.”


	4. Summer Light

_“How were you going to kidnap me, if I hadn’t gone with you willingly?”_

_“We were going to give you this sleeping weed, and then get you onto the ship. It’s pretty powerful stuff. It doesn’t take much to knock people out.”_

_“Huh...I haven’t been sleeping well, recently. Maybe you could give me some...?”_

_“Trouble sleeping? There’s easier ways to do that than use sleeping weed. It’s pretty addictive, you know...and there are better ways to sleep easy, heh.”_

_“Really, Zidane?”_

_“It was worth a shot--!”_

_He’d given it to her anyway._

“Sorry, everyone,” she said, quietly, leaving the dining hall. All of them were asleep. “But you can’t keep me locked up forever. I didn’t come here to be safe.”

She passes Number One, who hadn’t eaten; they just watch her go, without saying anything. Though she hadn’t expected them to; it wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong, in their eyes. It was probably accomplishing their mission.

Number Three is waiting for her in the garden, watching her impassively as she approaches. There is a flicker of some uncertain emotion in their eyes, before they kneel, wings outspread.

“It will be easier for you to settle in a comfortable position this way,” they explain, when she looks confused. “I am not made to carry conscious passengers. It will be a different kind of ride to an airship.”

“You aren’t going to put me to sleep?”

They huff. “If you ask me to, I will, but since you’re going along willingly I wouldn’t waste my magic on doing so.”

“No, it’s fine,” she reassures, only showing a hint of hesitation as she steps forward, looking at those incredibly sharp claws. “How am I supposed to sit?”

“Carefully.”

She makes a face at them, breaking composure. They cackle, and extend their arms out. “Sit here - not on my hands. Put your arms around my neck for stability, if you wish.”

She does so; it isn’t as prickly or uncomfortable as she expected. The mage is oddly malleable, though she can feel bones beneath the softer flesh; Doctor Tot had taught her (or rather, let her read) that humans are shaped the way they are because of a skeleton. It makes sense that this mage would be built the same way.

They smell like dust, and paper, and worn fabric. It’s oddly comforting; it reminds her of being a child again, reading books in the doctor’s tower and watching plays with her parents.

It’s almost funny, really. Something so dangerous, reminding her of happy memories like that.

“Ready?”

The rasping voice breaks her out of her thoughts. She swallows, thinking of the journey ahead; she isn’t scared of heights, but flying like this is completely different from an airship.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Number Three says wickedly, as they spread their wings and launch into the air entirely too fast for Dagger’s liking. “You can at least trust me not to drop you!”

\-----------

“She went _back_ to Alexandria? And you didn’t stop her?!” Zidane’s tail twitches angrily as he glares at the Black Waltz on the stairs, still idly swinging their bell back and forth.

Number One shrugs. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions. She was tired of being coddled, I believe.”

“I guess it makes sense...” Vivi adjusts his hat. “Maybe that’s why she was so sad.”

“Why didn’t she inform _me?_ ” Steiner is quite obviously in distress. “I would not have opposed it!”

“Ah, but you see, you would have wanted to go with her, and Number Three is not _meant_ to carry heavy loads...”

“What did you say?!” There’s a rattling sound as he rounds on Number Two, who is grinning without a mouth.

“Well, you _are_ heavily built. _Kee hee hee!_ ”

“Stop poking at Rusty, he might fall over from a heart attack,” Zidane says as he walks past. “We have to go to Burmecia, anyway. Don’t you know anyone she might go to? Maybe you could contact them.”

“Anyone she might...? Ah, of course!” Steiner’s broad face lights up. “Doctor Tot! She’s bound to talk to him! I will contact him posthaste!”

“An airship can probably get you there -gwok-,” Cid says, hopping off his throne. “Where does the doctor live?”

“In Treno! I’ll inform him in person - by your majesty’s leave, of course, but this is of paramount importance, you understand!"

“Of course -gwok-. I’ll arrange for transport at once. As for the rest of you, once you’re ready to leave, there will be a vehicle waiting to take you to the Dragon’s Gate at base level -gwok-.”

“If Burmecia’s already under siege, we must hurry,” Freya says, firmly. “There’s no time to lose.”

“The lady speaks perfect sense,” Number Two says cheerfully, despite the circumstances. “Are we all ready to depart?”

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing else to do here. Vivi, are you okay for everything?”

The mage nods. “Uh-huh.”

“Then let’s get going,” Zidane says, lacking his usual grin. “We’ve got work to do.”

The ride to the Dragon’s Gate is sombre; they’re all caught up in their own thoughts. Even Number Two seems fairly subdued, or at least not inclined to talk (though he seems to be examining the machinery that makes the trolley run, so he may not be distracted by the same things the others are).

The trek across the Mist-covered land is fairly uneventful, all told; they run into a few monsters, but nothing terrible happens.

There are two places of note - a dense swamp and a thick cluster of trees, barely visible in the distance - but they’re in a hurry. They can probably investigate when they come back.

As they approach, Zidane looks ahead.

“Hey, Freya,” he says, suddenly, speeding up. “Those doors...they aren’t supposed to be open, right?”

“No, they’re-” The dragon knight follows the thief’s line of sight and curses, quickening her pace to a run. Vivi yelps as he struggles to keep up; Number Two simply picks him up as he glides past, holding him tightly as he follows the pair to the grotto’s gate.

They find signs of forced entry and the scorched bodies of two guards, wide-eyed in surprise and fear. Freya doesn’t bother to check their pulses; their bodies are far too damaged to provide any hope.

Her mouth tightens. “We’ll have to give them a burial when we return. It--” She swipes at her eyes. “They died for their duty. For Burmecia. If there was more time, I would perform the rites-”

She hefts her lance with a tiny growl of frustration, cutting herself off. Zidane and Vivi (now safely on the ground again) look on, worriedly, but she shakes her head. “Later,” she says, steadily, with a warrior’s control. “The peace of the dead is on them now. There’s nothing to be done.”

Three of them enter; Number Two lingers outside for a moment, staring at the bodies.

He tips his hat to both of them; the glow in his eyes gutters a little as he kneels and closes their eyes, almost reverent. He enters the doorway and leaves the sad bodies soon after, before Zidane can call for him.

(He is not sure why he did it; but it seemed the proper thing to do, all the same. They are just bodies, and yet the knight’s reaction suggests otherwise; they were special. Because they were her countrymen? He doesn’t know.

He has seen the dead before. He is not sure what makes these ones so different.)

\------------

The flight is less bumpy than she thought it would be, and once she swallows her fear she’s even able to enjoy the view.

(Number Three does the occasional dive or swoop, plummeting towards the earth at alarming speeds, but they always pull up before anything bad happens. They have iron control over their own flight, which is understandable; they were built with wings, after all.)

“Did you get to practice flying?” she asks, curiously; she remembers watching baby birds. Not even birds came out of the nest ready to fly. The Black Waltz stares at her for a moment before looking ahead; they take their time to answer.

“I practiced enough. We weren’t allowed out of the basement where we were kept, but the wings needed to be exercised.”

“Like a baby bird’s?”

“I suppose,” they reply; there’s a little uncertainty in their tone, like they’re not quite sure of the answer.

“Have you ever seen baby birds before?”

“You ask too many questions,” Number Three snaps. “No wonder Number Two wanted to put you to sleep!”

She huffs; the Waltz seems vastly less dangerous now, more grumpy and emotional than she would expect from something made to kill.

(And she should really stop thinking of them as some _thing._ )

They fly on in relative silence; she looks down again, admiring the view (shrouded in Mist though it is). The weather is nice, too; that’s a definite bonus.

Number Three is the first to break the silence.

“You love your mother enough to go back to her, when she has done so much?” They sound curious.

“Of course I do,” she says, indignant. “I love her! And she loves me! If I talk to her, I’m sure I can stop her from doing these terrible things!”

“Soldiers talk, in Alexandria. They say the queen has changed very much. You don’t agree?”

“I--” She frowns, crossing her arms. “She just needs me. I shouldn’t have left her, that’s all.”

“Very well,” the construct sighs. “If you choose to cling to that, go ahead. It’s no business of mine what delusions you hold for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t understand! Something like you -- you wouldn’t know what it’s like to have a mother--” It’s a childish, petulant outburst, and she regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth. She looks up at Number Three, but they remain impassive.

“Yes,” the mage says dryly. “Such a thing _is_ difficult to imagine.”

She gulps; there’s a moment of silence, before she says anything to break it. Her voice is very small.

“I’m sorry,” she begins. “I didn’t mean--”

“If you’re going to cry, you can walk the rest of the way,” Number Three says, tetchily. “We were always treated as things, understand? It doesn’t bother me to be addressed that way.”

“I’m still sorry. You’re taking all this trouble...”

“I can carry more than this. You weigh nothing, comparatively.”

She has to laugh, though the lump in her throat is still there, and tears prick her eyes. It’s just so much to take in. “You’re really practical, aren’t you?”

“Outbursts of emotion are useless and don’t achieve anything. Don’t feel sorry for yourself for saying something you were already thinking - and don’t cry. That’s all I ask, _princess_.”

She feels oddly better, now, despite the Waltz’s sharp words; they talk to her normally, like she isn’t royalty or something to be protected, and that counts for something.

Even if they do use her title, and not her name.

\-------------------

They pass through the first room without any interference, leaving behind the sad body of another recently-deceased soldier. Freya doesn’t say anything; she simply holds her weapon more tightly, grits her teeth a little more. Zidane has nothing to say; Vivi practically clings to the monkey-tailed thief, a tiny shadow scared of what he might discover.

The bell peals, echoing feebly in the small room, and the door opens before the party. They head through.

There are two familiar faces, eerie white, painted with red and blue, awaiting them on the bridge above the path. They grin. Zidane takes a fighting stance.

“There you are! Little pests! Get rid of them, we will!”

“Not _you_ guys again!”

\--------

Number Two’s head hurts very much; so does his chest. So does the rest of him. He can smell smoke. He remembers--

_Destroy them! Destroy everything in your sight, until nothing is left!_

\--What does he remember? He can’t seem to process much at all. He moves sluggishly, with a groan; his vision is...nonexistent. He’s not sure why, until he lifts a hand to his eyes - where he guesses his eyes are - and finds them wet with a fluid not far removed from blood.

“Oh,” he mumbles, blearily, attempting to get up and skittering across the damp ground with a hard thump-clack. His ‘tail’ rattles on the flagstones; his wings flap once or twice, feebly.

“You’re awake, huh?” He recognises _that_ voice. He turns towards it.

“I believe so. I cannot possibly be dreaming _you_. Am I blind?” It seems like such an obvious question, considering what he’s already felt, what he’s figured out, but... “Physically, I mean.”

“Yes,” says a female voice, from somewhere to his left. “You fought us and the other mages that those two jesters left for us at the same time. Zidane and Vivi wanted to save you instead of killing you, and seeing how those orders were worded so precisely...”

“I cannot ‘destroy everything in sight’ if I cannot see. Very resourceful.” He senses escaping magic somewhere nearby; he guesses those are the bodies of the mages he’d apparently killed.

“You’re not angry?” That voice must be the little mage’s, quavering and uncertain; he feels a stab of some buried protective instinct, but his impulse is laughter.

“Hee hee hee! Why would I be angry? You could have chosen to kill me instead!” He sounds slightly hysterical. He’s not entirely sure why. He has to take a moment to get his emotions under control; he’s shaking with laughter for no apparent reason, and it rips out of him like a wave. He’s never seen the sea -- but he imagines that, waves crashing on the beach.

He can only imagine the reactions. He imagines that they are moving away from him; is he broken? He feels broken. He really does. He is not used to - all this.

It surprises him, then, that he feels a small, gloved hand in his, tugging at him; a quiet voice asking him to please get up, if he can.

“You are far too forgiving,” he informs Vivi, unsteadily rising into the air but keeping close to the ground so he doesn’t take the little mage with him.

“U-um, you were scary then, but I always remember how you were nice to me, and you told me a lot of things. A-and what Zidane said, about all of you...not having a choice. So it’s all right.”

He huffs. “ _Far_ too forgiving. As I said. If I were in the same situation, I would not have let you live.”

“You went easy on us, which helped a lot in deciding,” the thief boy says; he can almost picture the cheeky grin. “You weren’t anywhere near as dangerous as you were in Dali.”

Number Two huffs - what can he say to that? - and lets himself be led; Vivi seems to take his responsibility very seriously and won’t let go of his hand.

They keep going; he sharpens his hearing, since he has no other choice. He hears echoing footsteps on flagstones; the soft padding of the thief’s, the scratch-clank of the knight’s. Vivi’s own footsteps, clumsy and slightly uncoordinated, and his uneven breathing.

“Are you upset?” He is curious, dispassionate.

“Y-yeah.” The words are mumbled, a handful of shy and broken syllables. “Those soldiers...”

“You have not seen dead bodies before?”

“I-it’s not that, but...Miss Freya was upset, and so was Zidane, a-and...I know I-I don’t know them. Those soldiers. But it feels right to be upset.” There’s the rustle of cloth, a sniffling intake of breath; Vivi’s footsteps slow. “It’s...it’s hard to explain.”

“I will take your word for it,” Number Two says gently, oddly worried by this new change. “Forget I asked. It was inconvenient of me to do so.”

“I-it’s okay, really...” The footsteps speed up, catching up with the other two pairs. “I don’t know what..w-what to feel, either. But I’m going to learn! I’ll learn.”

“I believe we will both learn.”

There’s the tinkle of a bell; another door opening. The sound of the footsteps change, echoing, even booming a little - they are in a closed environment, quite large, and fairly empty.

“Hey there,” the thief says, warmly. There’s a reply, a higher-pitched and unfamiliar voice that echoes. He can’t quite make it out.

“It’s a Moogle,” Vivi says quietly.

“Hey--Number Two,” the thief boy says. “You’ve got some lifting power, right? Can you get this bell up?”

“Hm?” He drifts over, letting go of Vivi’s hand; he doesn’t need to see to know what the boy is referring to. The metal _sings_ to him; it’s been crafted by the hands of sentient beings, and it knows the touch of magic. He keeps track of the knight that way; the piercing blade of her lance is similarly blessed, and it sends high notes humming in his stolen bones.

“ _Very_ pretty,” he says approvingly, clawtips running over it, momentarily distracted. “You want me to lift it?”

“Yeah. Can you?”

He lowers his hands, finding the rim of the bell. The metal is thick, but it doesn’t seem beyond his limits.

“I will try,” he says.

He breathes in, feeling the joints of his shoulders creak as he prepares to lift the weight, and does with no small amount of effort.

“Come on, kupo!” He hears scrambling, echoing steps, and something thudding inside the hollow of the bell; then relative silence, though he can still hear ragged breathing.

He sees fit to release it after determining that whatever has gone on is now over, with no small amount of relief; the _clang_ echoes. His joints complain; physical exertion is not what he was designed for.

As soon as he’s floated away from the bell, Vivi is grabbing his hand again, tugging him along like a balloon.

“I have a feeling we’re not going to like what’s behind this door,” the lady knight says grimly. There’s the rustle of cloth, the soft peal of a bell; the door creaks and opens before them.

Air escapes; he breathes in damp smells, the sudden sharp tang of blood. Dripping water echoes, somewhere inside.

“Master Gizmaluke...” The voice is unfamiliar, and female. The knight’s intake of breath is sharp and sudden. “He’s...those two jesters...they did something to him. Be careful...Lady Freya...”

“Rest,” she urges. “You aren’t as badly hurt as the others, are you? You’ll be all right.”

“I wasn’t injured...too badly. Lady Freya...beware....” There is a sigh, and relative silence.

“Just sleeping,” the knight murmurs, striding forward. “I hope you can still cast without your sight, mage. Master Gizmaluke will be no easy task to calm.”

He huffs. “Of course. I am more than capable--”

He _feels_ the surge, something seething with magic stirring beneath the water - it must be water, he can hear it moving, lapping on the stone. The words are forced out of his mouth as a sudden pressure brings him down.

“Get back! _Now!_ ”

He feels Vivi stagger as the pathway shudders and grips onto his hand tightly. The thief boy scrambles away and the knight takes a few steps back, disciplined.

Those infinitesmal sounds are drowned out by a roar that shakes the chamber and sends a humming through his bones; something surges into the air, drenching them all with murky - and cold - water. The little mage yelps; so does the other boy. He ignores the cold, though it makes his bones ache; Number One is the one who likes such low temperatures.

He doesn’t need to see it to know where it is. He can hear the creature’s presence, an eerie song that thunders in his mind, drowning out everything else.

Something higher-pitched interrupts it; he tastes brightness and burning, lightning scorching the tip of a staff as it leaps from its caster to its target. Metal sings, high above, a promise of bloodshed; the beast shrieks in pain.

_“Swirling bolts, gather and strike with power...”_ He fights to keep his voice and his hands steady; at least his lack of sight helps him focus.

He lacks his usual control; he feels like he has just been born all over again, weak and wavering. He pulls in one breath, then another, forcing himself to complete the incantation.

_“Thundaga!”_

The magic tears out of him, raw lightning searing his palms; he chokes back a scream, hearing a bellow of agony as it strikes its target. He sinks to the floor, barely able to keep himself upright; he can’t be of any more use here, that’s for certain.

Metal _sings._ He wishes he could see its wielder - it’s a brief and fleeting thought, a strange one. He can almost hear it whistle through the air; there’s another roar and the familiar tang of blood, freshly drawn.

“Zidane! Now!”

“Got it!”

There’s a _whunk_ \- metal biting into flesh - another shriek, and a tremendous splash.

Ragged breathing, water dripping; stillness. For a second, nobody moves.

There is a long, long pause.

He can hear nothing from below.

“Forgive me, Master Gizmaluke,” the lady knight murmurs; he can hear her moving, presumably to the edge of the platform. A clank of metal armour on stone, the soft thunk of a wooden shaft; she is kneeling, perhaps. “They’ll pay in blood for what they’ve done. I swear it.”

The shuffle of bare feet; the scratch of claws. There is a damp rustle of cloth; a soaked hand takes his, tugging gently. He floats along, hearing the brush of his own damp robe over stone; his head feels like it’s on fire.

There’s a sneeze. The knight chuckles.

“Hey,” the thief says, reproach in his voice. “Being wet’s no laughing matter, you know!”

They move on; though none of them say anything, they are wondering what they will see next.

Rain falls, as they pass through; someone more poetic would say that the sky was crying.

It is fitting, for what they are about to bear witness to.

\-------

It’s late afternoon when Number Three has to stop; even a construct cannot fly forever.

“I need to rest,” they explain grumpily, settling in the crook of a tree. “And you should take the opportunity to do your _necessary business._ ”

She takes the hint; by the time she returns from exploring the surprisingly quiet little grotto where the Waltz has chosen to land, the mage is fast asleep.

It isn’t a normal sleep, though nothing is really ‘normal’ about Number Three. No matter what she does, and no matter how loud she is, (she begins to stack small objects onto the brim of their hat, and that amuses her for a good five minutes before she realises that no reaction will occur) the mage doesn’t stir at all. They are so still that they could be mistaken for a corpse, if she didn’t catch them breathing.

(She has a sudden vision of discarded playthings, left dusty and forgotten in the empty room that served her as a nursery all those years.)

No, not quite a corpse.

(A doll would be closer; she remembers that dusty, cloying smell. Brittle, dried flowers tucked into overall pockets, folded dresses, a wooden toy box. All memories. All gone, thrown down to the basement, when she no longer needed them.)

It’s quiet here, and peaceful; she lies down in the grass, watching the sky. Clouds skim past, swept by the wind; they put out fluffy tendrils as they sweep by, across the limitless blue.

She is not sure when she starts singing; it seems to come unbidden. There is something about this place that seems familiar - in the way that one thing reminds you of another - but she doesn’t really understand why.

“Number One knows that song.”

The rasping voice startles her, and she stops, looks. Number Three has not bothered to move from their resting place, but their eyes are lit up; brightly-burning slits in that dark, featureless gap, watching her.

“They hum it, sometimes,” the mage continues, idly scratching at the bark of the tree, leaving clawmarks in the trunk. “But they don’t know where it came from. It’s just there, in their mind. They had it when they were born.”

“...Oh.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. What _can_ she say?

“Don’t worry about it,” the Waltz says dismissively, as if reading her thoughts. “That’s what it reminded me of. That’s all.”

There is a long stretch of silence; or at least, it feels long. She takes a breath.

“Are you rested enough?”

“In a hurry, are we?”

Their voice is teasing, mocking. Harsh.

“I humbly request a little longer, _princess_ , as your _loyal subject._ Would you deny me that much?”

“I--”

She grits her teeth, frustrated. The words are clumsy in her mouth. Sharp, with an edge to them.

“We are wasting _time!_ I need to get to my mother, as soon as possible. I don’t know what she’s trying to _do!_ _We need to leave!”_

Another breath.

“Please,” she adds.

It sounds weak, but she feels as if she has to.

There’s a _thump_ and the sound of raspy wheezing; it takes her a moment to realise Number Three is _laughing_. They’ve fallen out of their perch, but that doesn’t seem to bother them in the slightest, by the way they’re rolling around on the grass.

“Very well,” they gasp, still shaking with laughter. “Since you’ve asked so-- _nicely!”_

She scowls and sticks out her tongue. They react by laughing even harder, and have to use their staff to get upright.

It takes Number Three a good five minutes to stop.

“I should have gone with Steiner,” she says, sulkily.

“You’ve made your choice,” the Waltz says, entirely unsympathetic; they kneel, again, stretching out their arms and beckoning. “You reap the consequences. Come now, princess. We’ve a long way to go yet.”

She settles into the mage’s arms, grumpily.

They don’t take off quite as fast, or as violently, as they did last time. Dagger’s fit seems to have amused them sufficiently.

She has plenty of time to think, and she does. 

She wonders how the others are doing. She wonders how her mother is doing.

She has a strange sense of foreboding, even so.


	5. The Winding Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Number One and Steiner try to get along. Meanwhile, Burmecia holds several more surprises for our intrepid party, and none of them are good.

“We don’t know where Queen Brahne will order her forces next -gwok-. We can drop you off near South Gate, but we don’t want to draw too much attention -gwok-. Every airship is precious.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means walking, sir knight,” says Number One, leaning against the railing and watching the ground skim past. “With me for company. Aren’t you blessed?”

“I could think of _other_ things to say about your company,” Steiner grumbles, arms crossed. He hasn’t forgiven Number One for standing by idly, while the princess was whisked away without him! It’s inconceivable!

“None of them good, I assume,” the mage says gently, patting the knight on the shoulder in a way that manages to be both slightly uncomfortable and intensely patronising. “There, there. Your princess will be fine.”

“You can’t _know_ that!”

“Well, yes, we can’t _know_ anything, but it’s infinitely more comforting to know that your beloved princess won’t end up as a sad smear on the ground.”

“...That just made it worse!” Steiner stomps his foot, rattling like an errant kettle boiling over.

“I can’t make any claims to be _good_ at reassuring missives,” the Waltz sighs, wandering away. “I can’t say I didn’t try.”

The weather is pleasant enough; by the time they land, Steiner’s mood has improved, as much as his mood can improve in such dire circumstances.

His heavy footsteps, however, don’t reflect his mood at all.

“Can’t you walk a little more softly?” Number One says at last, glancing over. They appear to be squinting at him; their eyes are little white slits. “They’ll be expecting our arrival at least an hour early, if you keep stomping like that.”

“This is how I always walk!”

“I humbly beg you to change your lifelong habit, good sir. My ears are _ringing._ ”

“You have ears?” It’s a surprise to Steiner; generally, ears are visible and on the outside of the head.

“The same as birds do, sir knight.” Another sideways glance.

He manages to surprise them by actually nodding, enthusiastically. “Ah, yes! I understand now! That makes perfect sense.”

“You birdwatch?”

The unspoken, loaded meaning in those two words is something along the lines of ‘ _you observe something long enough without scaring it away to notice that it doesn’t have external ears?’_

“Occasionally. The princess feeds birds, and I wouldn’t want to disturb her.” They notice that his features soften, none too infinitesmally, at the mere mention of the princess.

Some foreign affection, painful and unbidden, tugs at their core in response. They’re not sure why; it comes unbidden, these flashes, like snatches of a melody they have never remembered learning.

“I see,” the Waltz says carefully, after a moment. “You love her very much, don’t you?”

Steiner looks troubled, for a moment; he glances around the relatively quiet countryside. The mage is amused to see that for once, they are not the main target of suspicion; the knight eyes overlarge birds, rustling bushes and a relatively harmless rabbit before finally opening his mouth again.

“Well, you see,” he begins, more hesitant than the Waltz has ever seen him in the short time they have known one another, “the princess was, er, lacking in parental figures. Her father died when she was quite young, and the Queen...well, the Queen....that is to say, the Queen has...meaning no offense, but when His Majesty died, she...well, she...”

“Became strange?” Number One prompts, putting Steiner out of his misery by throwing him a suitably diplomatic assessment.

“Yes! Yes, exactly,” the knight says, with no uncertain relief. “She paid attention to the princess, as she always had, but--something had changed. It was as if she wasn’t seeing her in the same light. And after that--that _scoundrel_ \--”

“I assume you aren’t talking about that Zidane boy,” the Waltz says dryly.

“Of course not!” The interjection causes Steiner to jump up and down in apparent annoyance, clanking like an airship engine. “I was talking about that--that _wretched_ weapons supplier! That ruffian! That villain-”

“You’re a regular fountain of synonyms, aren’t you.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

“I meant what I said, and no more. Please, continue.”

The abrupt change in focus leaves Steiner baffled enough that he does continue, after a moment’s suspicious pause (directed entirely at Number One, this time).

“Ahem--well, yes. That-- _person_ started talking to her Majesty, extensively, and...she changed.” He scratches his head, a clear frown on his broad face. “Very much, very much indeed. She talked about waging war on the entire _continent_ -”

“Clearly a tactical nightmare, considering Alexandria consists only of ground forces with no specialisation--” The Waltz pauses at the look on Steiner’s face and waves a hand. “Go on. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“--it was...it was inadvisable, of course. Even General Beatrix, who is as loyal as I--even she thought it was unwise! But she refused to listen to us, and of course she said no word at all to the princess - understandable, of course, it would only distress her....”

“I would say that talk of your own mother planning to wage war on an entire continent would distress anyone...ah, yes, I said I wouldn’t interrupt, didn’t I...”

“This is no way to let someone tell a story! Even the princess, stubborn as she is, would let a man finish his tale!”

“I was under the impression that this was a discussion. I see I am mistaken.”

It’s enough to make Steiner stamp his foot again. “ _What does that mean?!_ ”

“I meant what I said, and no more. No more interruptions. I give you my word.”

There is a moment of sulky silence as the knight storms ahead, rattling angrily. Number One doesn’t bother to try and catch up; the man wouldn’t appreciate it, they’re sure.

After a minute or two, the knight calms enough to slow down again, and continue.

“Ahem. Yes. So, in that way, in a terribly informal manner, guardianship of the princess fell on my shoulders, more or less. I did my best to keep her safe and occupied, but she was always a handful...stubborn and precocious. But good-hearted and good-intentioned, of course! She...she means well. She does. But perhaps...I was lacking, in my guardianship,” he admits at last, his face troubled again. “I am...I am a bachelor, with no experience in raising children, and of course I had the duties of my knights to supervise...I fear I may have neglected her in some areas!”

 

The very idea of neglecting his beloved princess is enough to cause him visible worry and distress. He seems to have nothing more to say.

After a while, Number One speaks up, choosing their words carefully.

“You at least paid attention to her needs,” they say. “And you cared for her. You were a better parent than her Majesty, that seems certain.”

“I suppose,” the big knight says, stiffly. “But--it was better, in the old days. When I knew my role and my place, and her Majesty was still herself.”

“A creature of routine, eh?”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

“I meant no offense...has anyone told you you’re rather _prickly?_ ”

“No!”

“I can see why.”

They keep walking; it’s a nice day, as days go, and fairly quiet. The birds are still singing; the Mist is reasonably light today. Any monsters that feel like picking a fight are quickly dispatched; Number One is impressed with Steiner’s skill with such a heavy blade.

“That’s an old weapon, is it not?”

“I forged it myself, when I was knighted,” he grunts, sliding the broadsword back into its sheath with speed born of long practice with a frightful clanking of metal.

“I’ve always taken care of my sword,” he says proudly, gauntleted hands planted on his hips. “That’s one of a knight’s duties! Always take care of your weapon!” He makes a gesture that Number One is fairly sure could probably count as obscene in some towns, but is probably meant to represent emphasis. Or enthusiasm.

“You’re very chivalrous, I see,” they reply, with mild amusement. “Did you always want to be a knight?”

“Of course!” Steiner’s voice could have moved a mountain. Instead it booms across the rolling, verdant plains, cuts through the light fog, and spooks a creature some miles away into ramming face-first into a boulder in surprise. “To serve my home kingdom was always my dream!”

“Yes, that all seems obvious. And now -- I think I won’t ask you any more questions for a while,” Number One says dizzily, ears ringing from that last exclamation. “Has anyone told you you’re rather _loud?_ ”

The response is a predictable - and hasty - bellow of “ _ **No!**_ ”

\-------------

_Burmecia, the Land of Eternal Rain. Its people - inhuman. Its military - traditional. Its ways - incomprehensible. They are our neighbours, but it means nothing._

_“What a helpful book,” Number Two grumbles, closing it with a snap. “There isn’t a useful resource in this entire section. What a waste of time.”_

_“I never knew you were interested in geography.” Number One trundles past with an armful of novels, serene._

_“I’m not, but you’d think they’d have some information on Burmecia! Honestly! How can you even call yourselves educated if you’re willfully ignorant of a country you share borders with?”_

 

The air is cold; it smells - and sounds - like rain (the gentle patter of it drums an unceasing rhythm into his hearing). The hollow echo of their footsteps clamours in the confined space; the way sound bounces, it is likely to be some kind of contained area.

More footsteps; hurried breaths. There are two people, he thinks. The knight stops; well, everyone stops. He bumps gently into Vivi, in a meandering sort of way.

“Wait - I recognise them! It’s Lady Freya!”

“Lady Freya? What are you doing with these things?”

The smaller mage tightens his grip on Number Two’s hand, surprisingly strong; the sudden exhale of breath is something like a whimper.

“I might be blind, but I can still aim at your voice,” he says, coldly; oddly stung by Vivi’s reaction to those words.

“Hush,” the lady knight says, a warning tone in her voice. “They’re friends. What’s happened?”

“The--those pointy-hatted bastards--they just appeared, out of nowhere! We’ve never seen anything like them -- we were lucky to survive!”

“What about his majesty?” Her tone is suddenly urgent.

“I...I don’t know.” There’s a hint of shame in that voice. A foot scuffs the ground. “As I said, we were lucky to get out alive...”

“Good luck, Lady. You’re going in, aren’t you? You’ll need it, all the luck you can get. It...it was a massacre.”

The clattering of armour; the receding of footsteps. They thump away into the distance.

More footsteps, more familiar ones. There is a rattle of metal.

“Vivi. Are you going to be alright?”

“...I think so,” the little mage murmurs, squeezing Number Two’s hand in an almost absentminded way. “I’m scared, but...I want to know. I-I need to know.”

“You’re a brave little guy,” the thief boy says, sombrely, from somewhere near the knight. “But if you feel bad - you tell us, okay? We gotta take care of you - you’re a vital member of the team, you know?”

“O-okay. I...I’ll say something. If I get too scared.” His voice drops to a mumble, and his boots scuff the stone in nervous little fidgets.

Number Two is not entirely certain what Vivi is scared _about_ (Number Two himself was practically born knowing his purpose and his mission in life), but it makes him feel protective all the same. There is a kind of innocence there, a uniqueness that should be preserved.

He squeezes Vivi’s hand back in a deliberate motion, awkward and unpracticed but there. The grateful, nervous little press he gets in return is enough to assuage a worry he didn’t even know he had the capability for.

More footsteps; the little mage leads him by the hand, and seems intent on not letting go any time soon. He must look incredibly comical, like this; a war machine being led along by a tiny child like some kind of toy on a string.

It’s somewhat startling to find that he doesn’t really care; the fact that he is not fulfilling his standard functions any more is of no real importance to him.

More rain, more flagstones, more scuffling and shuffling and scratching. It’s irritating, lacking eyesight, even if it does heighten his other senses. He’d never been to Burmecia in person, and now he experiences it like this - it almost galls him. He feels oddly offended, somehow.

He feels a sigh, an itching in his core, and he looks over instinctively even though he sees nothing but complete and utter darkness in every direction.

“Ah - good eye.” The knight, again. There’s a clear, high note jangling in the back of his brain - another bell - and he has the impression of dull, clammy flesh, the sudden tang of blood, and he’s almost certain he just sensed someone dying.

There’s an awkward pause that seems to stretch on forever - it takes him a moment to realise exactly why - before he just laughs. It takes him a few moments to stop. It has a hysterical edge to it that builds in intensity as he continues, and then abruptly falls flat when he chokes it into submission.

“Let’s move on,” the thief says, after a moment of uncertainty in which they are all standing around, hearing the echoes of the mage’s laughter bounce off the architecture and probably staring. Number Two is almost sure the knight is reevaluating her decision to bring him along. _He’d_ reevaluate his decision to bring him along. He’s not sure why they haven’t left him yet.

Vivi gives his hand another squeeze and he’s suddenly grateful that they didn’t leave him behind, and he’s not even sure where the feeling of relief (is it relief? probably) is bubbling up from. It’s just _happening_ , much like everything else; he’d left any semblance of clear-cut orders behind the moment he’d dropped Number One onto that cargo ship, and he’d apparently left all of his rational thinking back in Dali.

Maybe that was the problem. He wasn’t really meant to handle _emotions_ and _feelings_ (weren’t those the same things? they were, maybe? he’s not sure about that either) and everything was so much _simpler_ back in Alexandria where people pointed at targets and he blasted them into splinters and he didn’t have to think about anything.

He senses concentrated magic and reacts automatically, bringing his hands up to fire, and immediately regrets it because what comes out of his palms is a spell of _some_ description but it makes him feel like throwing up, or at least lying down in a dark place for a while (preferably face down on the floor).

There’s a sound that can only be described as _viscerally unpleasant._ Something thuds against the stone some way away, and it sounds too light to be a _whole_ body. There’s another itchy sensation, this time in his head. Someone or something has died.

“ _Gross,_ ” the thief boy says, and it’s half horror and half genuine approval.

The other black mage - he assumes it is - is dealt with fairly swiftly. More itching. He feels a vague urge to claw at the inside of his head until it stops, but the part of his brain still working correctly reassures him that it would be a bad idea, mostly because in order to reach the itchy part he would have to fracture his own skull.

He finds he’s not too worried about the thought of it, but it would probably alarm his new traveling companions.

While he’s thinking about jamming his claws through his skull, he finds they’ve apparently arrived inside another ruined building. This one seems to be important. The knight sounds distressed, though he’s too distracted to pay attention to the words (which annoys him, in a vague kind of way).

“It’s pretty beat up.” The thief’s voice echoes; they’re in another large space. “You think anyone’s stuck around to admire their handiwork?”

“We’ll just have to find out,” the knight says coldly. He imagines her fingers tightening on the grip of her lance and approves of that possibly-imagined expression of future violence.

He feels...odd, heavier than he should. There’s a presence that makes him struggle to draw breath; he has a hard time ignoring it. Vivi doesn’t seem to feel it, but that may be because the child doesn’t know what it feels like. He’s envious of that, at least.

“Are you---all right?” The words are fuzzy; they jumble in his head. He mutters something like “I’m fine” and that seems to satisfy the little mage for the moment.

There’s the murmur of voices, the clack of metal, the sound of rain; they blur together, a smear of sound that he can make no coherent sense of. He feels so heavy; he wants to roost, to rest, to kneel. He was ever made to be subservient. Oh, Number Three is well enough - standing proud and tall - but he wants nothing more than to cower.

His creator is near. So near. Even more so when they enter that open space and he feels rain dripping again, hears it everywhere at once. His world is a dark, shuddering kaleidoscope of noise, confusing his brain and his senses.

He can do nothing but huddle uselessly. Vivi lets go of his hand, and he rests it and its twin on the damp stones. It helps, a little, but not by much. There are battle cries, he can feel magic bursting like fireworks in his head - it makes his head hurt and his ruined eyes ache - and the singing of the lance, the high peal of a sword, the clash of metal.

It blurs, smears horribly. He does not know how much time passes before it stops.

“You brought along one of the tools?” The man he knew as nothing but Master sounds surprised for once - albeit briefly. “This should be easy enough to deal with, hm? Your orders--”

The words are clear, but somehow those garble too; meaningless. Is he broken? He must be. He can’t even comprehend orders any more. After that, what is his use?

“Mage, are you listening?”

He snaps out of useless self-pity; even if he can’t hear the words, he knows what the man must be commanding him to do. What he’s always been taught to do; all he’s good for.

He has to destroy them. Spill their blood by any means possible until the flagstones run red, water stained and trickling and warm--

“No,” he murmurs, soft. "No." That is all he can say, like a broken record. He doesn't know if he says it more than once, but it fills his head. It's all he can grasp onto, that he doesn't want to, doesn't want this.

He’s helpless to resist when he’s kicked backwards (his master makes a noise of disgust, too); pain flares in his ribs and he dimly thinks _They just healed_ , with the slightest scrap of indignance, before his head cracks against a pillar and it’s too much for his already-hurting body to take.

Consciousness drips away from him, water through his fingers. All he can hear is rain, and the sound of footsteps growing more distant.

“Useless.”

Silence sweeps over him, a welcome guest.

After that, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? Don't worry, I'm still updating this thing.


	6. Aerie

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been flying; she fell asleep and awoke to new, more populated scenery, clouds skimming past. She reaches out curious fingers to catch them and finds them insubstantial wisps that leave her hands slightly damp.

Number Three has nothing to say; they keep their eyes ahead, towards their destination. They talk surprisingly little, for all their posturing. Presumably, they’re focusing on the goal.

Garnet finds that she’s unwilling to break this oddly comfortable silence, and so she leans back a little, stares quietly at the motions of the mage’s wings. She’s always found the movements of birds hypnotising (and envious, deep in her heart - what she wouldn’t give to be able to fly away!) and so she watches as the wings beat, idly, like they aren’t carrying burdens, supporting the weight of someone who is taller than she is.

That sparks a memory; something about canaries and cages.

“Were you watching?”

“Mm?” The Black Waltz sounds more relaxed than she’s ever remembered them being.

“That night. The theatre ship. Were you watching?”

“Somewhat - even down below, we could hear the performance.” An eye moves, though she can barely tell, to look at her. “..It was unnecessary for me.” They sound honestly embarrassed, for a brief and vulnerable moment. “I’ve read most of the plays cover to cover.”

Garnet laughs. “So have I! They’re so old, but they’re lovely, aren’t they? So _romantic_.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘romantic’ was the right word,” the mage mutters, turning their attention back to the skies. “Unless you think blood being spilled continuously is romantic.”

“It’s for love, though! Love drives everything. Different kinds of love, anyway.”

“Is that really all you focus on?”

“Well, no! There are plenty of jokes.” She giggles, mischievously. “I learned a lot more vocabulary than a princess was supposed to learn, since Mother wouldn’t let me leave the castle.”

“At least you had enough sense to keep your mouth shut about them. Doubtless those books would have been taken from you, if they knew.”

“Yes...” She’s no longer laughing; her expression is pensive. “...Do you think I’m doing the right thing? Going back there?”

“I have my orders. I have no opinion on them.” Their voice is stubbornly toneless, somehow.

“You know what I mean!”

“Hmmph. You’ll need to divine your own meaning. Do you think I’m a fortune-teller?”

“No, but--how do you even know what a fortune-teller is? Were you ever allowed to leave?”

“They’re called books, princess. Perhaps you should try to read more of them than you currently have.”

“H-hey!” She smacks them on the shoulder, and they cackle unmercifully. She leans back again, watching the ground skimming past far below.

(She realises, later, that the mage is skilled at deflecting questions they do not want to answer.)

“Why are we flying so high?”

“I don’t want to be shot down by an enterprising hunter. I have been taught that an arrow through the wing would produce less than optimal results for me.”

“What about airships?”

“They are unlikely to notice a small, fast-moving flying object unless it hangs around to be spotted. I have no intention of being spotted.”

“You’re really proud of your speed, aren’t you?”

“You’re really good at asking pointless questions, aren’t you?” They mimic her voice with almost perfect accuracy; it’s eerie.

( _She has the sudden thought of something not quite a bird, not quite anything, alone and shut off from the world. Mimicking words and voices because it is necessary, because it is doing what it is told. It does whatever it is told because surely others know better, because it is given orders, because it will be told it is good--_ )

She shivers, suddenly cold.

“Don’t do that!” There’s a note of fear in her voice. Her heart is thumping, suddenly.

Number Three, surprisingly

( _unsurprisingly_ )

does not laugh.

“As you wish.”

They continue onward. She wonders, dimly, when they’ll arrive.

She finds, surprisingly, that she’s a little scared of what she’ll find when she does, and she feels guilty, because, well, it’s her mother--

Her mother would never betray her. Her mother will see sense; she only has to talk her around. It will all be all right.

No matter how much Garnet thinks it to herself, clinging to that reasoning

( _that hope?_ )

she finds that she is still scared.

“How long?”

Her voice is small, and barely there.

“Not far now. Barring any sudden complications-”

A distant shrieking echoes up from the thickening Mist; a solitary birdlike creature with a long, feathered skirt for a body and frankly ridiculous-looking gangly legs sticking out of it shoots up past them before stopping abruptly, eyeing the mage and their passenger suspiciously as it beats its wings to keep it airborne.

It practically screams. Garnet covers her ears. Number Three barely flinches.

“Princess,” they say, calmly, as more monstrous birds join its companion in the sky, gradually surrounding them, “hand me my staff, would you?”

She unhooks the staff from where it hangs on the Waltz’s makeshift belt, silent. They take it without breaking eye contact with the creature in front of them.

The bird releases another long, ear-rending shriek - which ends abruptly as they aim and fire, lightning blazing from some inner core to blast the monster out of the sky. The mass of birds moves in, a feathered and darkening swarm, but Number Three is already accelerating.

They drop into the Mist below; it swirls up to greet them as the Waltz gathers speed, wings tucked tightly around themselves to speed the descent.

“Hold on tight,” the mage instructs, no trace of emotion in their voice. Garnet buries her face in their coat and tries not to scream as the world blurs.

\--------------

Steiner had actually worried, for a minute, that traveling with a black mage would cause problems - but it seems no news has really reached this far yet. Number One doesn’t get much more than a brief glance.

(Some part of Steiner rebelliously mutters that _of course they wouldn’t know, why would they, everything is under the table, just like it’s been for years_ before he shakes his head violently, dispelling them. This is no time for doubts!)

They retrieve tickets without any problems, though Number One’s way of speaking is commented on.

(“You never heard normal people talk? You remind me of my cousin, y’know. Sticks her nose in books all the time. Hardly hears another person. She pronounces things all odd, like you.” The ticket seller is obviously light-hearted about it, making small talk -- the mage even laughs, but Steiner thinks it seems forced.

And there had been another emotion there, too, subtle and easy to miss. He’s not even sure he caught it correctly.

But it had, in that little moment before they laughed, looked very much like hurt.)

And then, they wait. It takes quite a bit of time for the cable cars to travel back to the station, after all.

“Have you ever taken these cars before?” Steiner eyes the mage with suspicion (Number One stares back, blankly), but the question seems to be genuine curiosity and not one of those occasions where the knight is being very gently wound up for their own amusement.

“Mm, well,” Steiner scratches the side of his face, giving a noncommital answer as he thinks about it. “I don’t travel much, so I’ve never had any reason to. They’re safe, though. Safe as houses! The pride of Alexandria’s engineering! At least in transport, anyway,” he concedes.

“How patriotic,” the Waltz comments, lightly.

“And you?” Black mages hardly get a glance - Vivi had mentioned that he’d been treated like a normal child, after all - and Number One seems rather experienced.

It’s only a simple question, but the surprise is written all over the mage’s face (what passes for a face, anyway). Their eyes widen, then narrow as they turn away to look at the window outside. It’s an unusual display of emotion; in the short time Steiner has known them, they didn’t seem to have any other expression other than, perhaps, ‘mild amusement’.

“...No,” they say, quietly, somehow even more subdued than usual. “I was brought to the caves outside Dali via airship. That was my first time in the outside world.”

A more tactful person might have chosen to stop, but Steiner isn’t a master of subtlety. “You’ve never been outside before this?” The knight is an easy person to read, in turn; his surprise is an open book, stirred and shaken with a helping of disbelief.

Number One exhales, softly. “No, sir knight,” they say, attention focused on their gloved hands. Steiner can’t help but watch, too; for someone with such stubby fingers, the mage is incredibly dexterous. The bell they carry everywhere like a good luck charm slips through the gaps of their fingers before reappearing again, in hypnotic movements. A magician’s trick. “I was never allowed. Along with my siblings, I spent much of my life in the basements below the castle. I read very much...that is why I know so much despite never being abroad.”

They clench the bell in a hand, a sudden movement that’s almost vicious. “And that is why I talk so oddly, too. I have ‘never heard normal people’. That much is true, because I am not normal.”

Steiner isn’t sure what to say, in a rare moment of sensitivity.

“You never commented, though,” the Waltz says suddenly. “None of you did. Why?”

It’s the knight’s turn to fidget, to rub his helmet awkwardly and think about the question. “Well...the princess was brought up like that, too,” he says, finally. “She wasn’t allowed to go outside -- never was allowed to do anything much that involved ‘common people’.” He frowns. “She learned most of her words from Doctor Tot in Treno. He always let her read. Taught her plenty. But he didn’t get out much either, so she talked a little strangely.”

“I see.” It’s filler, mostly. The Waltz knows there’s more to say, and they’re just waiting to see what their conversational partner says next. It’s an odd feeling - Steiner has never been listened to so attentively in his life (not even by the princess herself). It reminds him of Vivi’s curious stare, hungry for knowledge, and that is perhaps why he says what he does next.

“And as for everyone else...well, Master Vivi’s the same. He’s got a lot of words to use. Sometimes they don’t come out quite right, but it doesn’t really matter. What matters is he talks, and people listen. And listening’s important.” Vivi had asked a lot of questions - not all of them had answers. Steiner and Zidane and Garnet had answered to the best of their ability nevertheless and he’d soaked it all in, like a sponge. Bright and happy. And they had never brushed him aside (at worst it was a ‘maybe later’, and it was answered later, as promised) because he wanted to learn. And that was important, too.

(Vivi had reminded him very much of a time when the world was much warmer in his memories. Garnet had been about that size, too, and she had crawled everywhere and climbed everything she possibly could and always left everyone in a panic, because she was at the age where she thought it was exciting to fit herself in small places and hide.

And she had talked, very much, about everything. Garnet had always been showing someone something. Everything was endlessly fascinating to her; she presented flowers and small stones with the gravitas of an explorer who had found priceless treasure. She badgered Steiner to take her around the castle gardens so they could go ‘adventuring’, and Steiner was in truth happy to do so.

Those days were gone now - long gone - and Vivi is certainly more erudite than Garnet ever was. But every question that a child asks should be answered; that is, and was, always what Steiner stubbornly believes.)

Steiner was not, on the whole, the best example of a knight. He clanked. He was inelegant. He tended to trip in panicked moments. He was remarkably bad-tempered and blustered quite a bit and was incredibly loud when he got excited. He jumped to conclusions. He often had trouble following things that were complex, and he was not incredibly tactful (especially when it came to Garnet). He wasn’t a handsome young man in shining armour, out of the pages of a storybook.

But when it counted -- when it was important -- he was there, and because this wasn’t a story, he was _real_. If nothing else, Steiner was _reliable_. And what he lacked was covered quite neatly by the fact that the knight’s larger than life presence included overwhelming kindness and a fierce determination that would have scared off a dragon. He’d swim up waterfalls and fall down mountains if that was what it took to protect what he loved best.

Silence.

(It has never been so obvious before that the mage is fascinated by human life; not in a scientific way, but in the way that comes with never having experienced it. The small behaviours and interactions of people, connected in unconscious ways. Even to Steiner, that detached interest is painfully clear - and it is just as clear that Number One does not consider themselves part of it. They are something other, that doesn’t flow or belong.

Vivi is clumsy in his interactions, in the manner of all children. Learning and growing among other people. The other mages have no such perceptions about their roles in life.)

“I see,” Number One says, quietly, staring reflectively at people passing by, waiting for the cars to arrive. They appear to have nothing more to say.

Things are quiet for a moment, as quiet as a crowded terminal can be, until a young man in a chef’s outfit accidentally crashes into Steiner with enough noise to wake the dead.

“Sorry, sorr- ulp--”

“ _You again?!_ ”

The mage winces and claps their hands over their ears.

“You know these children, sir knight?”

“They’re not _children_ , they’re a bunch of thieves! Responsible for all this mess! What are you even _doing_ here?”

“Er, uh--” He takes a step back and Number One watches Steiner’s face go red as he inhales for another tirade.

“Oi, there you are, Cinna! I told you not to go running off like that!” A broad-shouldered young man with a bandanna and simple, hard-wearing clothes pushes his way through the crowd, jaw jutting out stubbornly as he sometimes has to give a literal push to people who don’t get the message the first time. “You got a problem wit-hey, what’re _you_ doing here?”

“I was about to ask _him_ the same question!”

“Maybe you can _both_ explain it to each other without yelling,” the mage interjects, quickly stepping between them. Cinna just nods frantically.

The two men stare at each other, go ‘You first’ at the exact same time, and then start glaring again.

Number One just sighs.

_This is going to be a long wait._  
\--------------

It takes a while for him to stir. The pain in his ribs is gone, replaced by a kind of pleasant numbness that he appreciates. He feels like he’s dreaming; nothing but darkness in every direction.

He can hear voices, getting louder. The crackling of a fire, hissing slightly as water drips into it. Memory trickles back little by little, like the rain echoing off the rooftops -- and he remembers. He has just enough time to push himself up before he’s suddenly being gripped tightly by small, anxious hands. The pain in his ribs makes itself known in a remarkably sharp way that renders it impossible to ignore - mostly because something else is digging into him, too. What _is_ that?

“You’re okay! You’re okay!”

He wheezes quietly, trying to ignore the sudden reminder that parts of him probably haven’t healed yet, awkwardly patting Vivi on the back (once he finds him, because being blind is going to be something that takes some getting used to). Words swim around him, too fast and too many at once to properly grasp. Phrases like “-you weren’t breathing so we thought you were dead-” and “-just said to build the fire-” and “-because there was nothing we could do-” occasionally surface from a muddled, confusing sea of input.

“Vivi, you’re kinda...” He hears more footsteps, and then Vivi’s grip lessens (or, by the sound of it, is gently but firmly peeled away) and allows the other mage some breathing space. “There we go. Gotta give him some room, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

The child sounds so miserable that, against his better judgement and his body’s protests, Number Two almost wants to allow him to hold on again. Mercifully, the thought doesn’t reach his mouth. He feels frail enough as is, and while he appreciates the sentiment of the physical gesture he probably should listen to his body protesting that too much pressure might possibly snap him in half.

More footsteps, clanking against stone.

“You’re awake. Welcome back.”

More memories crowd in. They’re tinged with an emotion he’s not quite familiar with; somewhere in the sadness range, possibly, though it feels oddly worse than that.

“You...fought someone?” he guesses. His voice sounds weaker than he’d like. Those physical wounds must have taken more of a toll on him than he’d realised.

“Yes. A knight.” More clanking - is she sitting down? Probably. “Such strength....she took out all of us. When we awoke, she was gone.”

“He must have gone with her, then,” he muses, more to himself than anything else.

“He? There was someone else?” The thief boy’s footsteps come closer, then stop. He can almost visualise him crouching in front of him, a curious expression on his face.

“Yes. Our creator. And our master.” The words have a bitter taste to them, when they didn’t before. But he supposes now that he knows what it is to go without orders, they’re hard to say - even if they are true.

“The one who’s in charge of creating the black mages?” The knight sounds more urgent, now.

“Yes. He works for Alexandria. He has a prime position of power, since only he knows how to make us. But I don’t know much else about what he wants.”

“Well, we know the black mages can drive ships,” the thief muses. “Alexandria’s got some pretty big airships. Wonder how many mages you could fit on those.”

“Burmecia was your master’s testing ground, then.” The knight again. Her voice is bitter. “To test the power of his new soldiers, to see if they could stand up to trained, ordinary ones-”

“Um...”

Vivi’s voice is small, and quiet. It’s a tiny interjection, but everyone stops.

“Hey, Vivi. What is it?”

“Well...Alexandria’s got a lot of airships, right? And...there was a plant back in Dali. To, um...to manufacture more mages. We saw it. So...”

Number Two can almost see it, even without eyes; the little mage twisting his hands in his coat, fidgeting with the brim of his hat nervously.

“What if he...what if he doesn’t stop? Nobody knows what black mages are yet. They’ll be just like all those people we found here. And...and the mages...don’t stop either, right? Not until they’re told.”

“Yeah, but that’d mean...”

“He doesn’t just want to start a war, then,” the Waltz interjects, almost casually. “With Alexandria’s military power and transport, he wants to wipe out all opposition. A complete slaughter, and him on the winning side. And since he’s holding all the cards--”

“There’s nothing that protects Alexandria’s forces from him, either,” the knight finishes, sombre.

Silence falls as they contemplate the magnitude of the statement. Vivi is the first to speak, afterwards.

“So, um...what are we going to do?”

“Freya had a plan, I think,” the thief boy says, quickly. “Why don’t you fill everyone in again, Freya?”

“We’re going to Cleyra, to tell the king. About all of this. Then we’ll regroup. And plan.”

“Wonderful idea,” Number Two says. “One thing. Where’s Cleyra?”

“You’ll see. Or not.”

“Oh, you’re _hilarious_ ,” the mage grumbles, but good-naturedly.


End file.
